Strangers in a Bar
by hopefulwriter27
Summary: Sam and Dean are evil. They like to kill. Outsider's POV; slash


**Title:** Strangers in a Bar  
**Rating: **R  
**Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
**Summary:** Sam and Dean are evil. They like to kill. 3320 words  
**Authors Notes:** Got sucked into the Supernatural fandom, and I immediately fell for evil!Sam and evil!Dean. Here's my first SPN fic.

The auditorium was cast in shadows. A single bulb, run on generator power, was too weak to light the whole room. The yellow-white light ran down the double doors marked 'entrance' and 'exit' and created a short rectangular block of light over the first few rows of worn velvet theater seats. The wooden stage across from the doors was bathed in darkness. Amy had been here, to this theater, once a few years ago to see a low-budget version of _Romeo and Juliet._ Her ticket had cost three dollars.

Despite the fact she couldn't see more than a few feet in front of her face, Amy could hear the other man, the younger one, walking across the stage. His boots clunked against the wooden planks, and his weight bent the wood, releasing short, moaning groans. Each creak caused her shoulders to tense, and her breath to hitch. With her twenty-plus years as a psychiatrist, and her ability to read people, she knew he was the one to watch out for. The older man, the one whose excited breaths whooshed beside her, the one that had first caught her attention at the bar, was taking directions from his partner.

Amy felt the man press his calf against hers. She pushed her body back into the seat. The rough rope they had used to tie her to the auditorium chair rubbed hard against her bare forearms. She imagined her skin was flushed red from her first attempts to yank the ropes loose. That was when she first woke, and before she realized the man was standing so close to her. She thinks it's been at least twenty minutes since then, at least her mind has gone from fuzzy to mostly clear. She's had time to remember what happened prior to her abduction, and time to worry about her abductors.

She had gone to Tuesday's Bar and Grill, celebrating the finalization of her divorce. After several cosmopolitans, she had noticed the two men sitting in the shadows of a corner booth. One was in his early twenties. His brown hair curled over his ears and brushed against his chin. He had a strong jaw, and a dimpled chin; he was cute in a boy next-door way. Amy would have gone for him, but then her eyes landed on the other man. He was closer to thirty, and in Amy's opinion, extremely fuckable. Where the younger one seemed soft in places, this man was all hard edges. From the jut of his cheekbones, to the sharp line of his nose, and the razor edged ends of his hair, this man exuded danger.

Though her forty-fifth birthday was just around the corner, Amy knew she looked good. Daily Pilates and weekly trips to the gym had left her body toned. A trip to a plastic surgeon, a last minute attempt to please her cheating husband, gave her perky, c-sized breasts. Tonight, she pulled her glittering tank top low, and showed the boys her considerable cleavage. The young man bent over the table and whispered into his companion's ear. She saw the rough one nod, and then the whisperer disappeared into the shadows of the booth. The older man pushed his lips out in a smirk and raised an eyebrow. He titled his back, his eyes never leaving her face.

New drink in hand, Amy glided her way over. As she walked closer, she found herself caught in his green gaze. Her hip bumped into the squared edge of the table, and her drink sloshed over the rim of her glass onto her hand. She lifted her hand to lick away the liquid before it could spill on her clothes. A masculine hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist. Startled, Amy followed the hand back to its owner. The green eyes seemed to pierce her, and a frisson of nervousness ran through her.

Instead of leaning forward, he pulled her closer, sat the drink on the table, and brought her hand to his mouth. His lips were moist and slightly chapped as they pressed against the outside of her index finger. A hot tongue followed the path of spilled alcohol, up her finger and across the curve of her hand. His stubble scratched away the wetness left by his tongue. Desire knocked away her apprehension.

"I'm Amy," she whispered, her voice thick with want.

"Dean." His hand moved from her wrist to her waist and he pulled her into the booth. "This is Sam."

Her eyes fluttered to Sam. His back was pressed against the wall; one leg was bent, resting on the seat of the booth. The other was under the table. _He's a tall one, _she thought. Sam's eyes were narrowed and his mouth was drawn in an unhappy line. Amy didn't like the way he was glaring at her.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" she asked.

Dean pressed his head into the arch of her neck. She heard him inhale. "No. It was Sammy's idea for you to join us." He murmured into her skin. She felt the nip of teeth. A shiver wracked through her.

"As long as I'm welcomed…" she trailed off as a warm, calloused hand found its way under her shirt and pressed into the tight skin of her stomach. It drifted higher, and she stepped back. "Hey now, let's get to know each other a bit more."

Dean gave a sharp laugh and released her. "Sure, why not?" He scooted back into the booth, and took a swig from a bottle of beer.

Amy picked up her own drink and took another sip. It tasted sweeter than normal, and she wondered if bartender added sweetener to the drink.

"So Amy, what brings you out tonight?" Sam's question seemed innocent enough, but his tone was off. She pulled her gaze away from Dean's pink lips and looked at Sam. He gave her an eager smile, like he was over his dislike and was trying to be friendly. However, she could see something dark in his eyes, and she's suddenly uncomfortable.

Dean's fingers brushed hers, and he gave her a naughty little grin.

"I'm celebrating," She said then took another sip of her drink. "Today my divorce is official." She raised her glass, and both boys clinked their bottles against hers. All three of them drank. The loud bar music and the rowdy midnight crowd filled the silence as they gulped down their drinks. Dean was the first to finish, and he sat his empty bottle down with a thud. Sam sat his bottle next to Dean's, and she quickly swallowed the rest of her cosmo. Her glass looked small next to theirs.

The little bit of red at the bottom her glass swirled into the brown of the beer bottles. Heat shot uncomfortably through her body. A large hand draped over her shoulder. Dean's deep voice seemed far away when he asked, "Are you alright?"

She tried to focus on his beautiful face, but all she could see was the bright green of his eyes. There was something sinister in them that hadn't been there before. "Let's take her outside." Sam's voice cut in. She opened her mouth to tell him that she didn't want to go outside, but her words came out jumbled. A set of arms wrapped around her waist, and she felt herself dragged up. Nausea rolled through her and she heard, "Don't let her puke."

Bells jingled, and then humid air suctioned to her skin. She attempted to stand, to take a step forward, but her legs were jello. Through blurry vision she saw a black Chevy Impala, similar to one her teenage boyfriend had. Sam stuck a key into the car door then popped open the back seat. Another wave of nausea hit her as Dean swung her into his arms. "If she pukes in the car I'm not going to wait to kill her," Dean growled. Fear spiked through her at his words. He set her in the backseat, and then her everything went dark.

Now, with Dean's leg pressed against hers, she felt nothing but fear for the man. She wanted to call out, scream, call attention to herself, despite the fact she knew this theater was in a bad part of town, and that any screaming would probably be ignored. Amy tried anyway. She opened her mouth, ready to use every inch of air in her lungs to make as much noise as possible. She choked. A thin, cloth gag, something she had been too preoccupied to notice, was sucked into her mouth. Tears leaked from her eyes as she frantically pushed the cloth with her tongue. It was more difficult to get it out than to suck it in. She felt Dean shift. The pressure from his calf suddenly disappeared. He was quiet; she couldn't hear him move over the pound of her own heart. Never had she wanted a light more than this very second.

Then, he kneeled forward. The cloth of his jeans rubbed quietly against the carpeted floor. He placed a hand on each one of her knees. Amy flinched. Beads of sweat bubbled from under her skin and ran down her face, mixing with her warm tears. She heard a rumble then felt his hands vibrate through the thin fabric of her pants. It confused her; she squinted, peering through the darkness, trying to see what he was doing. A quick spurt of rage burned through her when she realized he was laughing. Just as quickly, the rage turned to fear when she realized _why_ he was laughing. This whole situation, her fear, was funny to him. The creaking from the stage stopped.

Suddenly, his hands slid forward only to stop where her thighs met her groin. With the speed of snake, his face was an inch from hers, their noses almost touching. His breath puffed across her skin. The scent of bitter beer and salty chips enveloped her. This close, she could make out his sharp features. Before his features reminder her of an ice sculpture, all angles and beauty; however, now his looks reminded her of a knife, nothing but hard steel and destruction. His fingers curled, pressed down hard into her. A cry of fear escaped the gag.

He grinned. "Are you afraid?" Only his lips moved as he asked the question, his body was perfectly still.

_Like a snake waiting to strike_, Amy thought. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look at his face.

A hand roughly grabbed her chin. There would be bruises later, if there was a later. "I asked you a question." Her eyes popped open. He saw her looking and added, "It's rude not to answer someone when they are asking you something."

Laugher, boyish and light, flittered down from the stage. "As if you care about being rude, Dean."

Dean chuckled, released her then stood up. His torso and face disappeared into the darkness. "You're such a know-it-all Sammy."

"I just know you. I'll always know you," Sam replied.

Dean snorted.

"Besides," Sam continued, "We both know she's terrified. That's what makes this fun." He said it matter-of-factly, like he's talking about fishing or playing basketball. Amy felt another ball of terror settle in her stomach. What kind of people thought so calmly about killing?

Dean moved forward again. This time he sat himself in the chair next to hers. He's close enough that she can make out his relaxed posture. He's the complete opposite of her. Where her legs are tense and tied to something under the seat, his legs are stretched out, one leg crossover over the other at the ankle, disappearing into the darkness between the first row of seats and the stage. Her legs cramped, as if seeing him reminded them that they have been in the same position too long. Her chest and shoulders were tight, pulled ramrod straight against the back of the chair. Dean's shoulders were resting against the back of the velvet seat, but his lower back was touching air, creating a small triangle of space between his back, the back of the chair and the seat of the chair.

He's got something in his hands. She can only turn her head so much without the gag pulling at the hair on the sides of her head. Between that and the way his elbow is bent, she couldn't quite make out what he's fiddling with. She must have made a noise, a quiet squeak of fear, or possibly of curiosity, because his head whipped toward her. His green eyes widened, and a smirk settled across his lips. He brought the mystery item close to her face.

It was a knife. It gleamed, despite the low light, all dark steel with a wickedly sharp edge. The blade was about half a foot long. It curved downward at the tip, only to flatten into a straight line, about an inch long, on the other side of the point. The bottom edge was ruler-straight and met the inch flat point at an obtuse angle. Amy couldn't tell the exact color of the handle. She thought it was brown, but it was too dark to tell. It was shorter than the blade and had grooves every inch or so, until the handle ended with a round, flat knob. Dean ran his thumb over the handle again and again.

_He cares for it,_ she thought, horrified.

With a turn of his wrist, the point of the knife rested near the curve of her cheek. A sob tore from her throat. He ran the knife, pressing hard enough for her to feel but not to cut, down the side of her face. "This beauty is called a Ka-Bar." Once he reached the bottom of her face he kept pulling the knife downwards, making his way to her throat. "It was originally created in 1898 as a hunting knife." He paused, and slid out of his seat, knife never leaving her skin. "But, it became famous during World War II when the Marines started using them for trench warfare." His breathing picked up again; he was crouched in front of her, balancing his body against the cushion of her seat.

"My dad was a marine. He gave me this knife when I turned eleven." Dean's voice held unmistakable pride. "I've killed countless number of things with this beauty." He pressed the point back against her skin, this time right between the top of her breasts. "She's never failed me," he whispered.

A muffled scream pierced the room. Dean's pushed hard enough to draw blood. Amy felt the thick liquid drip down her chest. She twisted hard. The ropes tore into her arms, but she didn't care. She needed to get out of there. In the back of her mind she's aware of a thump, the sound of feet hitting carpet. Sam's jumped off the stage.

She continued to writhe. Her body was covered with sweat and tears. Dean was grinning manically, the tip of his knife cutting deeper as she struggled. He's not moving. Sam's shoes are scuffling against the carpet as he slowly walked forward. With one final twist, Amy's worn out. Her chest moved up and down, and she's breathing as deeply as her body would allow her through her nose.

Sam came close enough for her to see his tall, boyish frame. Dean stood, taking the sharp knife with him. Amy watched, exhausted, terrified, and mind blank, as Sam pressed his front against Dean's back. She watched as Sam's left arm wrapped around Dean's stomach, holding, cuddling. She watched as Sam's right hand loving ran the length of Dean's arm, until his larger palm wrapped around the hand holding the knife. Carefully, Sam rotated Dean's wrist, displaying the knife. Amy saw a drop of blood drip from the dark steel tip. Her blood.

He controlled Dean's arm. He brought the knife further away from Amy, to their faces. Dean's head fell back into Sam's shoulder. Sam held the knife over his bent head. Amy witnessed some silent communication between the two. Something only they were privy to, something intimate and heated. Dean lets his mouth part, and she watched, disgusted, as his tongue fluttered out and caught a drop of her blood. 

"You shouldn't have touched my brother." Sam's voice was sharp.

Amy blinked, smashing her tears, in confusion.

Sam spoke again. "No one is allowed to touch my brother." The _except me_ hung unsaid in the air.

Amy wanted to cry out. _You called me over, _she thought. _Dean touched me first._ She knew it didn't matter. These boys lived in their own world with their own set of rules. A groan caught her attention. Sam has turned his brother's head, and has crushed his lips to Dean's. Another wave of disgust hits her, followed by a flash of curiosity. _How did these boys end up like this? _She would have loved to have had them on her couch, in her office to pick through their brains. Psychology was her passion.

Her curiosity died when Sam released Dean. Any other person would have stumbled forward at the abrupt release and push forward. Dean didn't; he stepped on the balls of his feet and moved as swift and gracefully as a cat. He came, face in front of hers, mirroring their earlier position. Through her tears, Amy noticed Dean's bottom lip, near the center, was colored deep red. _Stained from my blood, _she thought hysterically.

Again, he placed the knife, the Ka-Bar, against the skin of her cheek. She felt the pressure first, then the warm slide of blood down her face. The knife was sharp enough that the pain didn't register at first. Then it did. Hot, burning pain fired through the nerves in her cheek, and shook her whole body. "Please," she begged. The plea came out mumbled through the gag, but she knew they knew she was pleading for her life. Dean moved the knife to the other side of her face.

She felt her flesh parting, when Sam spoke. "Dean." It was abrupt, and stopped Dean in his tracks. The older brother turned to his sibling, confusion writing across his face. Amy had a moment to hope her earlier assessments were wrong, and Sam was going to put a stop this insanity. Then he spoke again, and she began to tremble hard enough that for a moment she thought an earthquake was happening. "Just finish her already. I'm hungry."

"NO!" She cried out. Her word was clear even through the gag. Dean didn't listen. It only took a second. One quick slash across her throat, too fast to feel, deep enough to kill. Blood bubbled from her lips, and her life poured down her body. She instinctively tried to lift her hands and press against her throat. Of course, she forgot, not thinking about anything but her incoming death, that her hands were tied.

Seconds passed, or possibly minutes, and Amy's vision began to gray. She no longer felt any pain, her body stilled, and her thoughts died. A humming whine blast through the building, and suddenly the lights burst back on.

"Hmm, I thought they'd be off longer," Sam's mused. Amy blinked.

Dean's black shirt and his pale face were covered in blood. It looked like he had been slashed, and not her. Amy wheezed as her lungs were filled with blood, and then stopped when she had no energy left. As the blood pooled beneath her body, the cushion soaking it up like a sponge, Sam ran a finger along Dean's face then brought it to his mouth. He sucked it, like his finger was covered with something sweet, while Dean followed his movement with hungry eyes.

Amy's last living act was to witness the brothers share a searing, blood smeared kiss.


End file.
